Blood Red Moon
by Angel Weasel-Woman
Summary: A chance encounter in the fog and Joe is introduced to the truth. Eventual Jyoumato
1. Myotismon

Joe looked longingly out the window, envying anyone and everyone who wasn't trapped in their room by their own friends, never to be let out again.

"You're going to whine again," Gomamon stated sleepily from his spot on Joe's bed. "Don't."

"If you're going to complain about me, why don't you do all this calling junk?" Joe barked, though the timidity in his voice kept him from sounding at all snappish.

Gomamon made a noise of discontent. He had been attempting to nap on Joe's bed while all the other Chosen Children searched for the Eighth Child, but the constant rumble of Joe's voice and his frustrated complaining had kept him from achieving more than a light doze more fit to be called "spacing out". His emerald eyes watched as Joe stood up for the sixth time in as many minutes and began pacing. The boy wandered over to the window for a moment, distracting himself by caressing the leaves of a newly sprouted plant in a tiny pot on the windowsill.

"It's sunset," Gomamon stated, continuing to watch as Joe turned from his little plant to wander to his bookshelf, glancing over the titles for the umpteenth time. "Maybe you should just call it a day? Continue on tomorrow?"

"But they're all counting on me…" Joe looked at the stack of directories handed to him that afternoon. He'd managed to make it almost a third of the way through them.

"Even if they are, do you think those people you're calling would like to be bothered at night?" Gomamon flopped on the bed. "I think you should get some sleep – you're cranky when you're tired."

Joe glared at the little creature already half-asleep on his pillow. He was too wound up to give into Gomamon's demands. He considered grabbing the directories and calling more people, but a single glance at the sky told him that it was too late to make social calls. So instead he grabbed the four books, setting the one he'd made his way entirely though aside, pulling the one he was working on in the middle before him, and leaving the other two where they were. He heard Gomamon's breath evening out as he meticulously stacked the directories so that they lined up with each other perfectly, their bottom edges running parallel to the edge of his desk. He pushed his glasses up on his face and, sneaking a quick look to make sure his Digimon was truly asleep, pulled off the tag around his neck and unhooked the Digivice from his belt. He felt unarmed and unprepared when he saw the little device on the desktop, but he forced that feeling away.

"I'll only be out for a little bit," he said to himself silently. He quietly slipped out the door, silently thanking whoever was above that his brothers and father were out for the rest of the night as he made his way down the hall and through the living room. He paused just as he reached the front door, something deep within himself warning him to turn around and grab at least his Digivice and Crest, but he forced that feeling down. "I won't go farther than the corner. Shouldn't be more than five minutes. Just to get some fresh air."

The door creaked open as he slipped outside. Already the sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving only a few dying beams of light to stretch out over the sky. Night had set in and, though he hated to admit it, Gomamon was right – no one would appreciate being called for no reason at this hour.

"Doesn't mean I don't feel bad about it." Joe sighed as he walked down the driveway, eyes focused on his feet. "I hate having to be responsible all the time. Why can't someone else do all this stuff? I bet I could help search for the Eighth Child just as well as any of them."

Joe turned onto the sidewalk and made a face. "Yeah right. Knowing me I'd probably trip over my own feet and die within ten minutes of searching. At least this way the only danger is me accidentally wrapping the phone cord around my neck." He made an attempt to kick a pebble, but missed and would have stubbed his toe if he hadn't been wearing shoes. He cursed lightly and hopped on one foot for a moment, willing the pain away. "Man, even a two-minute walk gets me injured. This is horrible."

Joe stood on the sidewalk just in front of his house. He contemplated just turning around and going back inside, maybe shoving Gomamon on the floor so that he could go to sleep. The small creature was tired, so maybe he wouldn't make too much fun of Joe for returning not two minutes after leaving.

The sun was setting really fast, Joe absently noticed, seeing that darkness was already taking over the sky. Tendrils of fog were starting to creep around his ankles, slithering along the ground like misty snakes. The streetlamp above him flickered to life, bathing him in a sickly yellow glow. He gave a quick glance at his watch and thought to himself, 'That's odd – the lights don't normally come on for another hour. I wonder what's going on.'

Lost in his thoughts, Joe didn't hear the near-silent squealing of rusty metal or the quiet thumping of wooden wheels on the rough street. He did, however, notice the large carriage, pulled along by absolutely nothing, that slowly rumbled up in front of him. He looked around, aware that the fog had suddenly enveloped everything around him and that he could hardly see more than five feet in any direction, obscuring the light from the streetlamp above and making the area around him merely a glowing patch of swirling mist. He took a step back, ready to run blindly back to his house when the carriage stopped completely. The intricately decorated door swung open and a tall figure, shadowed in the dimmed light, stepped out without a single sound. Joe gasped in the fog, feeling the damp air almost set off his asthma, and stumbled backwards. He recognized the billowing cloak and the sharp points of the mask the silhouette wore.

'Myotismon!' his mind shrieked. He turned sharply, tripping over his own feet and almost collided with the sidewalk if a strong hand hadn't grabbed his upper arm. He flinched away involuntarily, struggling. He was about to start screaming bloody murder when Myotismon grabbed his shoulder with his other hand and dragged him forward. Pearly teeth all but glowed in the lamplight and there was a sudden sharp pain on his throat.

Inside, Gomamon sat up and gave an agonized scream. His emerald eyes filled with tears as his body suddenly felt like it was being torn apart. His claws dug into Joe's pillow, attempting to find some purchase in the fluffy cloth. His throat closed in on his wailing painfully, cutting off his breath and, for a moment, he was completely paralyzed. The Digivice on the desktop flashed a holy yellow in some desperate attempt at saving the creature's life and sanity.

Finally, the pain passed and Gomamon give a pathetic whimper, falling sideways off the bed. A purple spotted egg collided with the floor, thick shell being the only thing that prevented it from shattering.

* * *

I've been wanting to write something like this for a while now. Here's to hoping I don't screw up. 

I don't own Digimon. So, till next time!


	2. Awakening

He awoke in darkness so thick and palpable he felt it washing over his very pores. Pain throbbed in his head, chest, and neck. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling cool satin on his bare back and shoulders. His hair tickled his forehead and he absently reached up to brush it aside, starting when his hand collided with something less than half a foot away from his body. Immediately panic set in him and he lashed out with hands and feet, kicking and hitting and with every erratic movement hitting something solid and covered in smooth cloth. His nails were digging into his palms, almost breaking the skin, and he could feel his knuckles bruising. He could hear a loud sound and suddenly became aware that it was his own screaming.

There was a scent surrounding him, overpowering everything but his fear. Sharp and strong, he could almost taste it.

In fact, he _could_ taste it. Sticky on his tongue and cheeks and throat. His screams stilled so suddenly he choked and his fists came to rest on the soft yet hard walls that encaged him. He could feel wetness on his palms that oozed down to his wrists, the overpowering odor wafting from his hands to assault his nostrils.

A muffled voice broke through the silence and he felt himself freeze up, straining his ears desperately to hear what was being said.

"Hey, boss, I thought you said he was dead. 'Cause he's making a whole hell of a lot of noise for a dead guy." There was a light thud and suddenly the voice was directly above him. "He can't've waken up already. Could he?"

A second voice, smoother and deeper, responded, "If he's the one spoken of, then yes. Now move – I wish to see him."

He shrunk back, pulling his hands to his chest, feeling more of that sticky stuff on him, and made as though he were attempting to melt into the satin below him. There was hardly a sound as the top of his enclosure was lifted away. Soft candlelight flooded the room and the overpowering scent drifted away, dulled by the sudden invasion of stone, dampness and dirt. Standing over him was the tallest man he could recall seeing, height accentuated by the high-rising collar of his black cape and long, upward-reaching wings of his crimson mask. His flesh was pale, looking paler than it was due to the rich black and dark blue that made up his elegant suit and cloak as well as the pure white bandage that was wrapped tightly about one of his wrists. Hovering at the man's side was what appeared to be a giant bat, draped over with blue cloth and red nails that shimmered in the candlelight and reminded him of something else.

"Ew," the bat said, scrunching up what must have been its nose. "You're going to have to clean your coffin, boss."

"Be quiet," the man barked, glaring in the creature's direction. Then he turned eyes of ice blue onto him and he felt a chill in his very soul. The man made a noise and mumbled something too soft for him to hear. "If you have enough strength, stand."

He swallowed harshly past the fear-induced lump in his throat, telling himself that this person hadn't harmed him yet, so he shouldn't have much to fear. He moved, pushing himself up into a sitting position and suddenly his vision began to swim and his body felt weak. There came a loud squawk from the bat and, with a rush of wings, he was unexpectedly being supported by the tiny creature. He tilted his head back, trying to open his windpipe and realized suddenly that he had not breathed once since he had awoken.

"This thing reeks," the bat was complaining half-heartedly. "I don't know how you guys can stand that smell. Not to mention it gets everywhere – I'm going to have to shower now, thank you very much. I've got it all over me now, damnit." There came a slight shifting as though to grab his attention. "You feel better?"

He had a hand pressed to his throat, bloody fingertips silently seeking out what he knew would not be there. A shadow was cast over him and he looked up to see a gloved hand and bandaged arm reaching out to him. He tentatively curled his hand in on itself, uncertain as to whether to take the proffered help.

"You're awake," the man spoke, "but you're weak. You need to feed again or else you won't be able to continue functioning."

"Go on," the bat encouraged. "We ain't gonna hurt you. You're our only hope."

He ran his tongue over his sticky lips, the taste igniting a deep, churning hunger that seemed to gnaw at his very consciousness. He glanced at the hand, noticing for the first time that the bandage wasn't as white as he'd originally thought – a light redness was staining the cloth in a horizontal slit along the wrist. The sight of it sent that raging hunger to the forefront of his mind and all he could think about was sating that need. He reached out and grabbed the hand eagerly, feeling himself being lifted to his feet.

* * *

I don't own Digimon. So, till next time! 


End file.
